( koby hasn't missed their weekly dinner rendezvous since they agreed upon it โ and shanks has mostly lived up to his end of the bargain, though last week koby did have to yammer shanks to wakefulness and half-drag him out of bed into the en suite. it's a good thing koby was there, holding shanks accountable, or else shanks most definitely would have had hair of the dog for breakfast instead of real food. still, hiccups aside, it's been going well โ and much by accident, they've stumbled into a tradition they have yet to break thus far: shanks with a pink earring or koby with red cufflinks, each of them wearing some subtle representation of the other in a simple exchange of colors.
tonight is no different.
well โ at least in the sense that shanks expects koby to be wearing something red at dinner. he'd left a gift (or perhaps a reward for perfect attendance) in koby's room earlier: a simple toy set in a velvet-lined box that he'd quietly liberated from the otherworld, along with a handwritten note in shanks' familiar, wobbly script:
the dining room, of course, is always boisterous with conversation and the sound of silver scraping against fine china, the roar of laughter from down the table, the liquid pour of more wine being served. it's loud enough to obscure the quiet hum of a motor or even a gasp if someone was particularly mindful of their breath control. so when shanks slides his hand over koby's thigh under the table just after the first course, when he leans in to whisper something against koby's ear, he isn't concerned in the slightest that someone might overhear: )
How does it feel? ( a question posed with all the self-satisfied cheekiness of someone who knows exactly how it feels, the pulse and thrum of vibration between koby's thighs practically reverberating under shanks' hand, in his chest. when he pulls back to gauge koby's expression, shanks is smiling serenely as if nothing is out of the ordinary, already reaching for his refilled glass of wine. )
ambiguously forward-dated ๐
tonight is no different.
well โ at least in the sense that shanks expects koby to be wearing something red at dinner. he'd left a gift (or perhaps a reward for perfect attendance) in koby's room earlier: a simple toy set in a velvet-lined box that he'd quietly liberated from the otherworld, along with a handwritten note in shanks' familiar, wobbly script:
the dining room, of course, is always boisterous with conversation and the sound of silver scraping against fine china, the roar of laughter from down the table, the liquid pour of more wine being served. it's loud enough to obscure the quiet hum of a motor or even a gasp if someone was particularly mindful of their breath control. so when shanks slides his hand over koby's thigh under the table just after the first course, when he leans in to whisper something against koby's ear, he isn't concerned in the slightest that someone might overhear: )
How does it feel? ( a question posed with all the self-satisfied cheekiness of someone who knows exactly how it feels, the pulse and thrum of vibration between koby's thighs practically reverberating under shanks' hand, in his chest. when he pulls back to gauge koby's expression, shanks is smiling serenely as if nothing is out of the ordinary, already reaching for his refilled glass of wine. )